"No, but that is a parable. You are becoming very fond of Church clothes. You are so 'dressy' that you have become a little inaccessible to the children, already—to their sympathies, I mean. They are essentially so informal, you see. They don't understand you. I do understand you—somewhat. And what I understand chills me a little. I understand you to be on the verge of losing heart over the problem of reconciling yourself to the undistinguished mixture of life. Your son would say that you have the 'retreat-complex.'"
"I'm sure I don't know what he would mean by that. What do you mean by it?"
"I understand you to be on the point of making a mystical surrender of your personality—on the verge of lapsing into a beatific mood which will separate you still farther from Oliver—and from me, and will ensure you against the pain and bitterness of reality. If you should surrender and really become spiritual, like Father Blakewell, or saintly, like no one of my acquaintance, you would drop out and desert us. If you became saintly, which Heaven forbid, your character would melt away like a little cloud in the moonlight. Your charm for me, for all of us, is in the definiteness of your personality, the clearness and distinction of your
